The Verminmaid
by ShiniNeko
Summary: An idea for a short story I had a couple years ago that kinda fizzled out until now- the tale of a young marten named Gerwyn, and her trials and tribulations in the harsh, northern world of woodlander and vermin.
1. Default Chapter

The Verminmaid It was one of the harshest winters the goodbeasts of Redwall had seen in their lives; snow had been piling up in huge drifts against the abbey walls for many days now, with no sign of letting up. At one point it almost looked as if the main doors themselves would be lost beneath the milky white hills, but then the fickle wind had changed once again, howling off over the western plains, heaping snow along the eastern wall.   
Creatures from all parts of Mossflower Country had come to seek refuge at the famed Abbey, driven from their homes by cold and hunger. Abbess Bryony could only remember one other winter this long and cruel, many, many season ago, when an orphaned son of vermin had been brought to Redwall and had brought to her both joy and sorrow.   
Seated in front of a warm fire in Cavern Hole, a mousebabe snuggled down in her lap, the Mother Abbess was herself about to let her drooping eyelids fall with the welcome weight of sleep when a sudden though struck her.   
"Blatt?" Glancing quickly around, she found him dozing beside her chair.   
"Blatt!"   
A loud snore greeted her in reply. Careful not to disturb the sleeping Dibbun, Bryony reached down and tweaked the otter's nose.   
"Snrrrrr-khrrt! Phwah! Oi, wot's the deal? Oh, it's you, marm." Blatt grinned sheepishly for having raised his voice to the Abbess, however unwittingly.   
An amused smile momentarily lit Bryony's face. In many ways Blatt was still just an overgrown otterpup.   
"Sumin hasn't come back in from the gatehouse yet, has he?"   
"I expect not, marm. 'E's been spendin' more'n more time in there since Ol' Barlom passed on, peace be 'pon 'is memory."   
Bryony nodded sympathetically. "Yes, well the poor creature's going to freeze to death if he stays out there much longer. Would you please go and get him, Blatt?"   
The friendly otter nodded readily and winked. "Aye, marm, I'll be back with 'im inna jiff. Snow's so deep, tho, I might 'afta plunk the ole bloke on me back an' swim through it!" 

After wading slowly through the waist-deep snow blanketing the Abbey grounds, Blatt found Sumin standing outside at the large, oaken double doors. Pity welled up in his heart at the sight of the lonely old squirrel freezing in the unmerciful weather.   
"C'mon there, old mate," Blatt called over the bone-chilling dirge of the wind. "Abbess wants yeh inside afore y'catch yer death o' cold out 'ere."   
But Sumin held up a paw, put one of his failing ears to the gates and croaked, "There's somebeast outside there, young riverdog. Unbar these doors 'ere so I can let the poor creatures in."   
Blatt sighed and shook his head. The old codger had been doing this ever since the first winter chills had taken his best friend, Barlom, the old recorder mouse. Always thought there was another woodlander freezing to death outside, even though the last of them had come weeks ago, bedraggled and beaten by the elements.   
Moving as quickly as he could in the encumbering snowbanks, the burly otter heaved the heavy wooden beam out of its slots and rolled it aside so that Sumin could pull the gate open. Blatt stuck his head out, too, as the elderly squirrel peered around, holding a lantern retrieved from the gatehouse.   
Satisfied with a brief scan, Blatt carefully patted Sumin's shoulder. "Now, see, there's nobeast fool enough t'be outside in this storm, mate - exceptin' us, o' course. 'Twas just the wind wantin' t'get in so's it could chill our poor bones." And, with a demonstrative shiver, Blatt turned around to replace the bar.   
"I say, riverdog! You just come out 'ere an' I'll show you your wind!"   
"Seasons o' famine, what's that crotchety ole kook think 'e's d-" Blatt stopped short mid-grumble as he sighted two cloak-wrapped figures outside the gates at the edge of the lantern light.   
"Kind surs," said the bigger one with an oddly slurred northern accent. "Would ya have et en yur gudd 'earts t'sheltur two poor ould travelurs, or if y've no room en yur gudd 'oome, t'tell us whur we might take refuge from thes turrible storm?"   
Blatt was thunderstruck. "Uh, uh o'course w-we can take y'in, mate. Great seasons! Yew two must be 'alf frozen solid comin' in from that! Uh, Sumin, sir, take these poor gentlebeasts to the Abbess while I get the gates barred up agin."   
"Humph. _Now_ the young rip treats me with due respect, not like I'm some old fogey lost 'is marbles. 'S what I always told Barlom, young 'uns don't have enough respect these days....This way, please, good creatures, we'll follow the trail that young dunderhead riverdog plowed through this miserable snow." 

"My goodness, Sumin! Don't tell me these two gentlebeasts came from out of that frightful storm outside?"   
Sumin put his lantern down and shook the snow from his grayed fur. "Alright, marm, I won't tell you they did...but they did!"   
"Aye, that they did, marm," Blatt echoed increduously, following close behind Sumin. "Didn't b'lieve it meself 'til I saw 'em there outside the gate's, large as life."   
"You mean until _I_ had to point the poor freezing creatures out t'you before you'd believe the words of your elder, y'daft riverdog," huffed the old squirrel.   
"Now now, Sumin...." Bryony began, rising from her chair with the mousebabe in her arms.   
"Come back here you rogues! You're supposed to be asleep!"   
Three of the Abbey's Dibbuns were chased into Cavern Hole by Brund the dormouse. A trundling molebabe was trying to hold two large bowls of leek and mushroom soup steady, while two little fieldmice scampered along with half a loaf of nutbread between them. On their way to hiding behind the Abbess's skirts, they managed to wake most of the slumbering occupants, stepping on tails and spilling drops of hot soup on noses.   
"Hurr, you'm tellum us'n's bringin' bread an' zoop turr 'ee guests, Mizz," said the mole to Bryony, holding up the wobbling bowls as high as he could.   
Flashing a forgiving smile at the flustered Brund, Bryony bent down and placed the bowls on the floor by the fire. "That's very nice of you, Gurdo. After they've eaten, though, I'm sure our guests will want to rest, so it's off to bed with you three."   
"Beggen yur pardon, Mother Abbess," said the larger of the strangers, both still hidden in their draping cloaks. "These fine young gentlebeasts wur gudd enough t'bring me end my compan'in a warm meal. Et's my thought they shudd be 'llowed t'stay up end visit with us." From the heavy folds of cloth a gnarled black paw reached out and patted Grundo softly on the head.   
Something wasn't sitting right with Blatt about the strangers. The bigger one was nearly bigger than he was, and certainly not an otter. And the way they tried to hide their faces and bodies with their cloaks....   
"Ahoy, mates," he said, making his voice as friendly as he could. "Those bedsheets y'got on are soakin' wet wi' snow. Why don'tcha lemme hang 'em up for ya an' warm up by the fire while y'sup yore soup?"   
After a moment's hesitation, the larger visitor took a shuffling step back from the gathering of Abbeydwellers and spoke in a low tone, striving to remove the harsh accent from his voice. "I know you're kind-'earted creatures 'ere at thes Abbey...." As the stranger turned his head towards her, Abbess Bryony could see two yellow eyes shining in the blackness of his hood. "We'll r'move our cloaks if you'll but promess not t'judge us by th'way we look." With that, he slowly raised two slender paws with blunt, worn claws and pulled the hood back from his long snout and big, pointed ears. There in Cavern Hole stood the aged figure of a gray fox with his uncloaked companion, a small, wiry black rat.   
"Vermin!" The cry went up immediately among the Abbey creatures.   
"Get those Dibbuns away from the fox!"   
"Bo urr, Oi'm knew oi smelled a ratter, hurr!"   
"Oh, they're rotten thieves! Waitin' for us to let down our guard so's they can murder us in our beds!"   
"Sumin, you old fool! You've brought vermin into the Abbey!"   
"_Quiet!_ All of you, quiet!"   
A hush fell over the room at Abbess Bryony's sharp command, save for the whimpering of the frightened mousebabe she clutched in her arms.   
"Now before you all condemn these ver...creatures, and throw them out into the snow, let's act as proper Sisters and Brothers of Redwall should and hear what they have to say." She calmly strode over to the two, who were hunched against the far wall, away from the semicircle of woodlanders that surrounded them. "You, fox, tell me truly. Who are you and why have you come to this Abbey?"   
Motioning the rat to be easy, the fox lowered himself into a sitting position before answering with a sigh, "Ai, th'creatures in thes lend are gudd-natured, but they nevur lessen. Ded I not esk ya t'not judge us fur whet we are, gudd Mother? My compan'in end I are th'last from a ship of explorurs. My name es Byarn, end he's kelled Yulan. Our dear leadur end frind wes taken by th'wintur coold b'fur we reached yur Abbey. We've 'eard such grand tales of et, we wented t'see th'legend of Redwall fur ourselves."   
"Hmm....Byarn, Yulan. Those are strange-sounding names to me. You also have a peculiar accent. Are you from the Far North?"   
Byarn smiled warmly, a grandfatherly expression that seemed quite odd on the face of what Bryony had always considered as a verminbeast. Deep down, she was beginning to feel she could trust him. "Me end Yulan 'ere are from a lend much further then whetchya kell yur Far Nurth. Ooh, we sailed th'seas from our 'oome end lended thur seasons ehgo, but thet's a long stury thet'd take meny coold wintur nights like thes t'tell."   
Bryony shocked everybeast present with her next statement. "Well then, Byarn, I invite you and Yulan to stay as guests of Redwall Abbey until the telling is done. I would very much like to hear your story."   
Blatt took a tentative step forward. "Er, Abbess marm, with all due respect t'yerself an' these two 'ere-"   
"Abbess, they're vermin!" yelled somebeast from the back of the crowd.   
Gurdo the molebabe waddled resolutely through the mass of Abbeybeasts, carrying one of the soup bowls from the fire. Setting it down before Byarn and clambering into the fox's lap, the little mole called out in a gruff bass, "Yurr, B'arn b'ain't no vurmint! 'E'm be a foxer, hurr, a noice foxer. 'Ere be yurr zoop, zurr B'arn. Ett it all oop, zurr, thun you'm be tellin' oi yurr story."   
The old rat, who had been silent throughout the whole matter, now cracked a small smile and said in a surprisingly soft voice, "Byarn's a wonderful creature with young 'uns."   
More apprehensive and wondering stares followed the two young fieldmouse friends of Gurdo's, one struggling to keep her balance while tottering over with the half loaf of nutbread, the other pulling the second bowl of soup behind him. Both were placed in front of Yulan before the two Dibbuns began a curious inspection of him, each climbing on one of his knees, staring and tracing over his tattered ears and the scars on his face, taking up his furless tail and stroking it until they finally coaxed another smile out of him and giggled in satisfaction.   
Byarn grinned between spoonfuls of soup. "Ya know ya've always hed a soft spot fur th'lettle 'uns, too, Yulan."   
The approval of their children seemed to allay the Redwallers' fears, although a few still kept a cautious eye on the two even after their ancient rusted weapons were taken and put someplace safe until the time of their departure. Food and drink were brought from the kitchens for all who wanted them, and as the mood grew lighter, friendly banter began to be exchanged along with food. Pasties, scones with snowcream and vegetable flans left over from dinner, honeyed autumn apples and candied nuts brought up from the cellars, along with flasks of elderberry wine, raspberry cordial, and goats milk for the little ones.   
Villainous as they may have appeared, the old fox and rat were quite amiable, Byarn doing most of the chatting and joking with Yulan throwing in some comments on the side. When the refreshments were gone and the night was beginning to get on, Abbess Bryony politely suggested that their guests may wish to get some sleep, which also mean bedtime for the all the little ones bunched around the two.   
"Hurr, but Zurr B'arn still gotten be tellin' oi 'eem story, h'Abbess, marm. Cain't oi stay oop jus' ee liddle bit more?"   
All the youngsters echoed Gurdo's plea. "Can't we stay up jus' a liddle bit more, Abbess, marm?"   
"Ken we please stay up jes' a lettle bet mure, Abbess?" Byarn implored Bryony in comical imitation. "Yulan 'n I'd love t'tell 'em th'farst pert of our stury, marm. Ken we please stay up?"   
Bryony brought a paw to her mouth and pretended to cough in order to hide a smile at the good-natured fox's antics. Putting on her sternest face, she slowly swept her gaze over the eager crowd.   
"Oh, very well," she said with mock severity. "And I suppose I should allow you all to sleep in tomorrow and have a geat big brunch with our guests as well, hm?"   
A resounding hooray went up from the Abbeydwellers, and the children hastily claimed their front row seats as everybeast gathered close to hear the strange creatures' tale.   
Taking a sip of cordial and clearing his throat, Byarn began, "I ken well understend yur startled react'en when y'farst saw whet menner of creatures me end Yulan are. Thes lend of yurs, th'Far Nurth, end all en b'tween are crawlen weth 'oorrible, cruel beasts thet certainly deserve th' name vurmen. Our 'oome esn't much defferent en thet respect, but whur we come from, thur's mure guddbeasts whom y'southurnurs'd be kellen vurmen then thur es ectual vurmenbeasts. Ai, foxes, ratses, all menner of creatures leven en peaceful settlements, often enough weth woodlendurs sech es yurselves."   
A wondering murmur spread through the gathering. Foxes and ferrets living with mice and moles? It was a thing unheard of, indeed a thing that seemed, to the creatures of Mossflower, altogether impossible.   
"Yes," continued Byarn, "survivel essa vury surious business en thes lend of tundra end mountains. Th'oonly way creatures survive es by wurken t'gethur, soo thet's whet they do. Now I cuddn't tell ya our stury wethout begennen from th'begennen. Et all started weth a young wurrior maiden, who's prolly now long been a herooine beck en hur lend, end shudd rightly be en yur Far Nurth, for she saved et from a terreble, wild wurlord...a great mountain wolf!" Byarn was a good storyteller, jumping up with claws raised as he told of the warlord. Naturally, his audience recoiled fearfully, but more from the idea than the gesture. A wolf! Nobeast in Mossflower Country or beyond had ever told of actually seeing such a beast, but it was said they were so fierce that even a Badger Lord would be scared to fight one. "Yes, th'maiden kept thes wolf from taken oover th'nurthurn lends 'ere, end ensodoin' freed 'er oown 'oomelend, th'vury same es ours. She wes a marten creature, end th-"   
"Burr, you'm mean she wurra vurminmaid?" interrupted an old mole in the front.   
Byarn settled down comfortably and nodded. "I s'pose y'cudd say thet, Sur. Ai, a marten she wes, a vurmenmaid, end thes es 'er stury es much es ours...." 

Far across the storm-blown Eastern Sea, far to the north, in a land of seacoast and mountains, a wolf mother lay with her litter of puppies. They rested far back in a mountain cave on one of the highest of the crags that stretched down the great mass of land, separating the western coastline from the eastern forests and the rest of the inland continent beyond them.   
The puppies were mere days old, weak and sightless, their downy fur just beginning to show their mottled patterns. Their mother, white as the snow that fell in big puffy clumps outside, kept them close against her thick, warm coat. Her crimson eyes drifted back time and again to two puppies, the largest and the smallest. Her little Fenrir wasn't scrawny or sickly at all; she could tell he would live through the cold, unforgiving winter, and she would make sure he stayed strong. Her mate's biggest son, one of the three he had named, pawed and nudged at his brothers, pushing for the warmest spot between them and his mother. This tiny, whimpering wolf pup finally settled down to sleep, and to dream. To dream of being bigger, of being stronger, of being wilder. To dream of being the terror that stalked all the northern lands and their creatures, of running, of hunting, of killing. To dream a dream that would haunt him all his young seasons until his father would teach him better, a dream of a northern creature far fiercer than he, of the cold bite of that creature's steel, of the chilling pain far worse than all the winter's snow and ice that battered the land of seacoast and mountains.   
Outside, the snow grew heavier. 


	2. Book One: The Wolf and the Maiden/Chapte...

Book One: The Wolf and the Maiden   
Chapter 1

It was late into spring, but still there were great tracts of snow in the thickly wooded foothills of the Howling Mountains. Through the canopy of birch, ash, and pine, the stars began to fade as the eastern sky took on a soft glow. Dawn would soon break. The early morning sounds of the awakening world spread quickly over hill and dale. Birds belting out the day's first serenade, insects buzzing and chirruping, the rustlings of small creatures in the trees and undergrowth; all heralded the rising of the sun into the clear, brightening sky.   
A cold wind briefly chilled the crisp morning air, blowing westward off of the icy seas, over the eastern cliffs, the sparse strip of flatland dotted with heather and gorse, making its way into the woods where it dwindled to nought but a breath. Before the breeze expired, it dropped into a deep valley at the edge of the forbidding mountains, making the fir trees shiver. At this end of the forest, it was the only thing to disturb the unnatural quiet. A deathly stillness had settled over the valley, and nestled against its southerly slopes, the lonely village of Drakyndell fearfully awaited the storm that would shatter it. 

Aric could sense the apprehension of his troops hanging in the air like an oppressive stench. He also knew, however, that every last one of them was willing to sell their lives dearly to protect their families and the stronghold of hope they had struggled so hard to build. Their freedom, the freedom of all the land from the mountains to the sea, was at stake today. Drakyndell had to be defended, the Mountain Wolf's forces pushed out of the valleys, back to the cold, cruel mountain crags that had spawned them. Aric would die before he would see his wife, and the child she was soon to deliver, withered and broken under the tyranny of Garhad Stormslayer and his vicious brood.   
"Steady on there, Aric. Ef ye 'old that sword any tighter yore bound t'crush et, hawhaw!" The marten was nearly knocked to the ground by a hearty backslap from his good and loyal friend, a monstrously huge mountain hare called Gran. His kind was a rarity among creatures; before both their lifetimes, the Mountain Wolf had ordered a genocide of the perilous hares that frequented his home peaks. They had been a major threat to his control, and he dealt with them as he would any other problem - by eliminating the source. It sickened and angered Aric to no end, his swordpaw convulsively tightening. He saw Gran regarding him with concern and flashed a grim smile.   
"I'd take you up on that bet, old friend, but I'm going to need this beauty today."   
"Hrumph!" The hare snorted scornfully and hefted his gargantuan pike, nearly as thick as Aric's body. It was a splendidly crafted weapon, made of stout oak and equipped with hooked crosstrees just beneath the long, flat blade. "M'ould grammy used lettle splenters like yore'n t'pick the tucker frummer teeth, m'bucko. Good, trusty woodstave an' iron, now that's th'weapon f'r me!"   
"Indeed it is, you great hulking rockhopper. We'll just see whose blade takes the most foebeasts, then. That ought to settle it, eh?"   
"Righto, y'scrawny treediver. Now less jawwen an' more marchen! For'ard the ranks, m'lucky buckos! 'Tis a marv'lus mornen t'die!"   
The company, emboldened by the hare's bravado, proceeded through the unblocked gates of the wood and rock walls surrounding the village, waving a final farewell to the friends and loved ones gathered to see them on their way to battle. Once they started down the slope of the valley, Aric took off into the trees to scout ahead, agile as any of the squirrels accompanying him. The last report had placed a faction of the Painted Horde heading southwest along the base of the mountains, but they could very well have been traversing the basin by the time Drakyndell's warriors moved out. No scout had been heard from in a fortnight, and the village was beginning to fear the worst for their brave volunteers out in the foothills.   
_If those horrid beasts_ are _in the basin, that puts them less than five leagues from the village._ As he moved across the interlacing paths of branches, Aric mentally calculated the possible points at which the fighting could take place. In all cases, it was much too close for comfort. All it would take was a wounded hordebeast or deserter to run off in the right direction. If they got so much as a sniff of the settlement...._Well then, they'll just have to be driven off and kept on the run_, he thought, strengthening his resolve. _Strike like wildfire, vanish like smoke._ That was how it had always been since the founding of Drakyndell and the resistance movement. Good creatures from all parts of the forest had slowly begun to gather around the settlement's dragon banner, but the whole of the countryside was still too much in fear of the Mountain Wolf's wrath to dare rise against him. About the only thing keeping hope alive was the ancient tale of the dragons that once lived in the mountains, before the wolves, before the endless winter that settled over them. The great fire lizards kept the young world safe and warm from their high peaks, and all creatures lived in peace for countless ages. But then the wolves came from the frozen lands beyond, bringing with them their snow and their ice, forcing the dragons to flee across the ocean. Those who stayed were hunted down by huge, voracious packs, or froze to death refusing to leave their caves. Legend told of some who survived the terrible cold, feeding on the wolves and keeping their numbers in check, but nobeast had ever claimed to see one.   
Seasons ago a large male wolf rose to power in the Howling Mountains, as they came to be called. Garhad Stormslayer, stronger, faster, and more cunning than any other of his kind, thirsted to be lord over all which he could see from the snowbound crags. He was ruthless, cruel and unpredictable, a wild beast that ruled over his assembled army of painted vermin through pain and terror. All in his vast horde had crimson clawmarks tattooed upon each cheek, his personal sign of dominance. The Mountain Wolf kept his domain under iron claws, and had recently made each of his five sons a general at the behest of his mate, an albino shewolf with a demon streak. The beauty of Ingrata Frostfur was matched only by her cruelty. The suffering of those that fell into her grasp was loud and long.   
Many were the simple, stout-hearted creatures that waited for the day foretold when the dragons, strong and fearless, would return from across the seas and rid the country of its wolven scourge with but the breath from their mouths. Aric himself wasn't sure of the legends, but if it kept hope alive, the dragon seemed a fair symbol for the resistance. Glancing down from his perch amongst the foliage, the marten could just make out the forerunners of the troops. He was lagging behind with all this daydreaming. Hurrying to catch up with the foremost scouts, he nearly collided with a squirrel streaking back through the trees like an arrow.   
"Sir!" the young creature, whom Aric recognized as the new scout Evra, saluted and rapped out a breathless report. "Enemy sighted...not 'alf a league...nor'east of us." He paused and caught his breath, pointing in the general direction. "Movin' fast, sir."   
"Good work, young Evra. Now you've got your wind back, suppose you could run along back and inform Gran? He'll know what to do."   
The squirrel winked. "Two steps ahead of you, sir; I sent Hazel to inform the ground forces soon as I got back. Fastest in all m'family, she is, sir."   
Aric couldn't help but smile at Evra's pride in his older sister. "Aye, truly you are both called Swiftbrush. And you keep a good head, young scout. Now nip along and you can help me get the archers and slingers into position - I can't be everywhere at once, you know, and we've much ground to cover, or trees, as it were."   
Evra puffed out his narrow chest and saluted smartly with a very enthusiastic "Yes _sir_!" and bolted off.   
A breeze picked up from the north, carrying the unmistakable scents of weasel and rat. Pungent odors, more interspersed, wafted through the trees before the growing wind changed direction, thankfully not away from them so that the enemy might detect the small army lying in wait. At least Drakyndell's creatures would have the advantage of surprise. Besides stealth, speed was everything. Aric only hoped the better part of those under his command were ready to move as fast as young Evra. If he knew the Painted Horde, they would have precious little time to regroup. 

Kosk the ferret muttered a curse for the umpteenth time as a careless hordebeast in front of him let a straggly pine branch whip back into his face. He had no time to remove himself from the general vicinity of the tree before the vermin behind him shoved him through the lot of it, leaving him riddled with prickly needles and in a fouler temper than ever. He hated being in front, but it was impossible to simply melt back into the ranks at the pace they had been made to keep all through the night. The horde hadn't even rested before dawn like they usually did; they had been marching for almost a full day. Kosk's footpaws felt like two huge blisters, and he was hungry enough to eat treebark.   
"Yeeowch!!" he yelped as something struck him a hard blow the the head. He rounded angrily on the nearest hordebeast, a big, slow-looking weasel. "Whut's th'big idea, y'boulder-'eaded idjit?"   
"Whuddya mean? I didn't do nuffin," the weasel shot back defensively.   
Kosk opened his mouth to deliver another accusatory insult, but, to his momentary surprise and horror, what came out was the head of an arrow. Before the slain ferret hit the ground, the weasel was staring in amazement at the shaft that appeared to sprout from his chest.   
Abruptly the outermost ranks of the horde found itself under a deadly rain of arrows and stones that seemed to come from all directions at once. The front lines immediately broke and scattered, only to be cut down individually by well-aimed projectiles. Rank captains screamed for the ambushed army to form up in some semblance of order, but before the first archer could draw an arrow, the barrage had stopped. No movement betrayed any hint of the horde's attackers.   
Sudden cries broke out farther down the line of vermin as scores dropped to the ground, wounded or dead, and were trampled by their harried comrades. It seemed they was being peppered from all sides, but somebeast finally noticed that the bulk of fire was concentrated at the head of the horde.   
"Get th'archers up front an' start firin' int' the trees, ye worthless hunksa dogmeat! They're in the trees!"   
Soon every hordebeast who could handle a bow or sling was pushed into the front ranks. Volley after volley was sent into the foliage overhead, and the army began to make slow but steady progress onward. A fair number of vermin were still picked off from the edges, but the swift razing of the forest canopy was taking its toll on their unseen assailants. As the horde moved forward, bodies, mostly squirrels, littered the ground, and others fell screaming from the high boughs.   
A rat loosed a shaft at a group of red-furred creatures streaking through surrounding branches and whooped in satisfaction when a squirrel plummeted down.   
"Ha! I got 'im! 'S only a rotten buncha treejumpers, mates, let's spit every one o-" The rest came out in a strangled gurgle, choked off by the arrow transfixing the rat's neck.   
"That's the way to shut 'em up, Aric," said a graying squirrel grimly from his perch on an elm branch. "Though I wish it was me got the scoundrel." Glancing briefly at his companion, Aric saw his eyes gleaming with tears of rage as he snuffed the life from another rat down below.   
"Peryn was a stout-hearted young lad," the marten offered comfortingly, slinging a large, flat stone. "We'll pay the murdering curs back a hundredfold for your son."   
"If they keep on like this, they're goin' to rack up a mighty large debt," growled the squirrel. "I thought if we hit hard and fast enough we might just be able to turn them back or alter their course, but there's no way through those arrows they keep tossin' up in front of 'em."   
As if to enforce the point, the two of them barely scampered to another tree in time before the elm they and a few others had occupied was turned into a pincushion. A few of their numbers hadn't been quick enough.   
"I hate to have to resort to it, but that's what our ground troops are behind us for." Aric sighed. Now that the horde's blood was up it would be a hard battle indeed. And far too close to home. "Spread the word to move at their flanks; they won't be expecting that, and it'll sandwich them between us and Gran's boys. He'll get a report from his scouts and start advancing as soon as we pull out of here."   
Cyrrul Swiftbrush nodded wordlessly and sprang off with a speed and deftness that belied his many seasons. Aric took a moment to sniff the air, which had been growing warm and heavy as the morning got on. A storm was coming. 

Close to noon, the skies began to darken over the valley. Thick clouds blew in on a suddenly icy wind laced with the sharp, salty scent of the ocean. Above the forest, above the heads of the two struggling armies, tremendous thunderheads were building up. The battle had been long and fierce, but the creatures of Drakyndell were gaining the upper hand. Surrounded and beset with a ferocity not seen in woodlanders since the Mountain Wolf had first invaded, the Painted Horde was quailing. Pawsore from their long march, they had been in no condition for a fight of this scale and were thuroughly exhausted. The vermin were now fighting for their lives.   
"Set th'cowards runnen t'the Gates o' Hell, m'beauties!" cried the mountain hare Gran, grabbing Drakyndell's dragon banner from a weary dormouse. "Rally to me, buckos! Vict'ry to th'dragons!" The hare's fervor was contagious; caught up into it, the remnants of the ground troops mustered up a tremendous charge, their cries mingling with the first mighty crashes of thunder. If the ensuing din was like to the heavens ripping open, then the unearthly cry following the downpour of rain was that of a demon loosed from hell.   
"Arwroooooooooooo!"   
Woodlander and vermin alike froze in terror at the bloodcurdling howl, seemingly echoed by the dirge of the wind through the trees and backed by rumbling thunder. A flash of lightning revealed the beast from whose throat the bonechilling noise had torn. Barreling down a path hastily parted through the ranks of the Painted Horde, a mottled monster of a wolf launched itself at the army of Drakyndell, baying wildly.   
"Arwroooooooooooo!"   
The wolf had no weapons; it needed none. Anybeast fool enough to try and fight it was ripped apart by the huge claws and long, gleaming fangs. The beast left a swathe of destruction in its wake which was duely trampled over by the revitalized Painted Horde, infused with the bloodlust of their leader. Stark fear took hold of Drakyndell's creatures.   
"Stay away! The beast'll kill us all!"   
"It's the Mountain Wolf!"   
"Nought for it, mates - retreat!"   
The unexpected counterattack of the Painted Horde had quickly turned into an all-out frenzy. Suddenly the weight of numbers began to show all too clearly; the ground troops broke under the vicious assault and fled the mass of crazed vermin. Once they stopped fighting, they were merely running targets for the battle-hardened killers.   
Aric and his tree-going forces watched the unfolding chaos with mounting horror and disbelief. It was all they could do to keep a full-scale slaughter from ensuing. The vermin no longer even considered the possibility of death from above, the whole of the horde pressing heedlessly forward through showers of slingstones and arrows. Their numbers had to have been cut by half since the battle began, but for every one slain ten more seemed to appear.   
A swirl of commotion direction below him drew Aric's attention. It was Gran and a pitifully small, straggling remnant of the his ground forces, hemmed in on three sides by vermin and backed up against a thick clump of trees. Others from Drakyndell sped by heedlessly, pursued by invariably larger groups of vermin, as the mountain hare yelled fiercely.   
"Cummon ye spineless worms! Stand y'r ground an' fight! I 'adda auntie ate scrawny lil' mites th'likes o' these f'r brikfest! R'member yer fam'lies an' fight f'r Drakyndell! Freedooooooooom!" Gran charged the gang of vermin, shattering the ribs of the nearest two with a colossal double-pawed kick. His comrades drew up the will to fight, and they fought hard and well, but their numbers were simply too few. Before long they were overwhelmed by the vermin, but Gran kept fighting. Eyes shining blood-red as lightning flashed, he was suffused with the ferocious battle rage that had made his kind so deadly a foe of the Mountain Wolf. The mountain hare slashed and stabbed with the blade of his pike, swept and jabbed with the haft, and lashed about with his long, powerful legs. Aric watched in amazement, unable to look away, as the last of the vermin was pinned to a nearby tree by the huge pike. The blade was buried to its crosstrees in the trunk, and as Gran tugged and heaved to free it, something large and gray emerged from the shadows of the forest.   
"Gran, look out!"   
Without thinking, Aric dropped from his perch and unsheated his sword. The monstrous wolf charged at Gran's back, sending him flying into the air with a powerful pawswipe as Aric sprinted towards it. He leapt high and swung hard, dropped and rolled. The wolf sprung up and howled with pain as Aric's sword slashed across its face. A moment later the marten felt the breath knocked from him and was sent crashing into a tree trunk. Pain and blackness threatened to crush Aric's head as he lay unable to move. He heard the wolf's pawsteps moving away from him and tried desperately to get up. All he managed was opening his eyes in time to see Gran pinned underneath a massive paw. Aric staggered to his feet on buckling knees, but before he could move from the support of the tree, the wolf snarled ferally and ripped out the struggling mountain hare's throat with its teeth.   
Screaming unintelligibly, Aric grabbed up his sword from where it had fallen and was about to throw himself upon the beast that had murdered his best friend when he was swung up into the boughs. The squirrels that had pulled him up had to hold him down against a branch to keep him from leaping off again. He struggled feebly for a long time, but finally weariness and grief overcame him.   
"That...that murdering scum!" he sobbed as the squirrels released him, pounding his fist against the wood until it felt broken in at least three places.   
"Aric...." Evra lifted him up. He was trying to be comforting, but there was an element of haste and apprehension in his voice. "Everyone on the ground has been killed. And there's only a few of us left up in the trees. I understand your anger, but we _have_ to retreat before any more are slain! Who'll be left to protect Drakyndell otherwise? What will so many have died for? Gran, and, and Peryn...and our father...." The young squirrel fought briefly against his own tears. "We can't let their sacrifice be in vain, Aric."   
Sobered by his young friend's words, Aric nodded. "We have to at least lead them away," he said stonily. The coldness in his eyes made Evra shiver. "Order the retreat. We head north."   
Overhead, the storm raged mercilessly on.   
  
It was well on into evening before the scant remainder of Drakyndell's army trudged wearily up to the settlement's heavily fortified gates. The stormclouds had finally settled in the late afternoon, content to pummel the valley and the fleeing survivors with a steady deluge of cold, fat raindrops.   
Once inside the walls, Aric and his comrades were surrounded by anxious friends and family, eager for tidings of the battle and their loved ones. Most met with sorrowful news. The crowds were gently moved aside so that the staff of the village hospice could get to the wounded and, more importantly, bring the entire company indoors to warm fires and hot meals.   
Aric moved automatically, walking to where he was guided with deadened paws, mechanically eating a steaming bowl of soup, staring listlessly into a roaring fire. A tubby female stoat as round as she was tall came bustling in, obviously in a hurry to find someone. She spotted Aric, took two waddling steps towards him, then stopped dead, shocked at his haggard appearance.   
"Why, what's plaguin' our champion warrior, Jerran?" she asked of the nearest creature, a squirrel.   
"Ah, poor Aric," he said, shaking his head sympathetically. "Apparently his dear friend Gran was slain before his eyes by the Mountain Wolf. There was nothing he could do, but I suspect he blames himself some. There's been so much bloodshed today, a wonder there aren't more in his condition."   
The marten appeared to mutter something darkly.   
"Eh? What was that, dearie?" inquired the stoat.   
"It wasn't Stormslayer," growled Aric. A tense hush came over the hospice room at the mention of the Mountain Wolf's fearsome name. "It was one of his sons. I know hellspawn when I see it. Dargon. Dargon Rawfang." He reached up slowly behind his head and drew his sword from the sheath still strapped to his back. Lowering it so that the blade glimmered brightly in the firelight, the marten stared at it as if to melt it with his eyes. "I swear by my sword and my honor I will avenge the death of Gran my brother in arms....Dargon Rawfang will taste this steel again one day. That day will be his last."   
There was an uncomfortable silence following the marten's vow, which was broken by Mildred, the female stoat.   
"Well then, all well and good and plenty time for mournin' tomorrer, but for tonight I've a spot of good news for you, Mister Aric, so chin up or the missus won't be lettin' you scare the baby with that 'orrible face you're makin'."   
Aric turned and blinked owlishly as if seeing Mildred for the first time. He didn't seem to comprehend at first. "My...my wife? Mireielle?"   
"Is the proud new mother of a beautiful baby girl, you great puddenhead!" Mildred beamed as if it were her own daughter. "Ah me, born right in th'middle of that 'orrible storm, and an 'ard birth it was, too - well I never!" she exclaimed indignantly as Aric suddenly sprang to life and shoved her aside. He was out the door and running down the hard dirt road before she could admonish him, shouting excitedly.   
"Mireielle! _Mireielle!!_" 

Sitting in an old, cozy rocking chair close to the fire, a young, strikingly beautiful female marten was slowly rocking both her newborn child and herself to sleep. She had tried her best to keep awake until her husband came back, and was nearly sick with worry - he had to come back. He was going to come back. But she was so exhausted from their daughter's birth, and the fire was so warm, the gentle motions of the rocking chair so soothing....   
The sharp, unexpected noise of the door banging open startled her from the edge of sleep. Turning her head, she scrubbed at her eyes with her free paw to make sure what she beheld in her doorway wasn't merely an apparition. There stood her husband, windblown, soaked straight through and exhibiting a few minor wounds. But he was there. He was home.   
"Aric...." She made as if to rise, but he hastily stepped inside and closed the door, motioning for her stay were she was. Which was just as well, given that she didn't know how much longer she would be able to stay awake, sitting or on her feet.   
A soft, loving smile made Mireielle's face glow as her husband bent to tenderly kiss her brow. He gazed at the small bundle in her arms, moved the edge of the cloth back so that he could see his daughter's sleeping face, and smiled rapturously as a tiny paw reflexively curled around his.   
"My daughter...."   
His wife made a small sound of contentment, drifting away again to the silent realms of sleep. Aric stroked her head affectionately and asked, keeping his voice low, "Mireielle?...Did you name her?"   
"Gerwyn," she mumbled quietly before finally slipping into a deep slumber.   
The baby gurgled happily in her sleep and released Aric's paw. He kissed his daughter's chubby cheek, whispering goodnight. "Sweet dreams, my little Gerwyn." 


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

An icy wind cut through the Howling Mountains, echoing the haunting wolf calls for which they had been named. Winter had set in upon the land.   
The first snow had hit hard, as if thrown from the sky. Within the first few weeks of the season, the countryside was blanketed in white to match the overshadowing crags. Rockslides had run on the heels of the first freezes, and now that snow and ice had spread itself down from the peaks nearly unto the brink of the sea cliffs, avalanches had become an added danger. Thus, through graveyard forests and deathtrap mountain passes, two wolves and a battered cohort of vermin came at last to the stronghold of Garhad Stormslayer, the Mountain Wolf.   
The fearsome warlord had claimed for himself a vast honeycomb of natural caves in the heart of the mountain range. The huge main entrance was situated high above the timber line, looking out onto all the Mountain Wolf's domain. On clear days, the sea could be seen glittering on the horizon. A great rocky overhang fended off most snow slides that would turn into avalanches as they progressed downwards. Inside was a long, cavernous hall dimly lit by torches. The flames cast flickering shadows, creating a grisly illusion of the restless ghosts of the unfortunate creatures whose pelts lined the walls. The ceiling could not be seen from the ground; darkness seemed to swallow the cave mere pawlengths above the wall sconces, and hung threateningly just overhead. Nobeast save their inhabitants could enter the caves without apprehension. The air smelled of death.   
A nervous group of captains followed their leaders through the unsettling entrance hall. Hordebeasts, no matter of what rank, were generally not allowed into the mountain domain of the wolves. Few lesser creatures were, save for the chieftans or matriarchs of various tribes that roamed the Howling Mountains. Even so, those audiences often ended in blood.   
Whatever the misgivings of his subordinates, Branog Thunderpaw was the picture of arrogance. One of the Mountain Wolf's five sons, he and his brother Uthor were par for the largest. And strongest. In fact, they vied continuously for superiority it speed, skill, and anything else that would win their father's favor. Just recently they had been sent along with their other brother, Verdok, to quash a few stirrings of rebellion in the western forests. Uthor had stayed behind, wanting to push out to the coastlands, where he felt their father's grip had been too lax of late. They needed a reminder, he had said, of who their ruler was.   
_Let Uthor play in the coastlanders' sandbox_, thought Branog to himself. _While he wastes his time,_ I'll_ be the one to crush the largest resistance movement since this land was conquered._   
As if he had read his brother's mind, Verdok quietly inquired, "Don't you think Mother and Father will be less likely to grant your request when they see you've broken their own laws and brought this mite-ridden rabble in?"   
Branog was irritated by the question, but refused to have his good mood ruined. "First off, I'm not requestin' anything; I'm _telling_ 'em I'm going, and that's that. And two, this here riff-raff is for show - I want th'ould man to know my warriors is the bravest we got. That's why they're gonna come before 'im proud as you please and not a smidgeon of fear on their faces. Isn't that right, captains?" He bared his fangs in what might have been a smile at the vermin behind him. They had no choice but to mask their fear with confident grins and swaggering. Any sign of weakness would certainly be the death of them now, either by the claws of Branog or those of his parents, whose throne room they entered.   
The chamber gave one the impression of stepping into the mouth of a monster. Spikes of rock jutted from both floor and ceiling like great sharp teeth. A narrow carpet of hare fur dyed crimson ran from the doorway to a central pair of ornate seats carved from two massive stalagmites. Upon them reclined two wolves. On the left was the female, whiter than the purest snows, absently stroking the head of another, smaller wolf sitting below her. The male was an even larger, even more terrible version of Branog. His thick fur was mottled black and gray and white. The shaggy beginnings of a beard and prominent touches of silver betrayed his many seasons, but although there were bags beneath his dark brown eyes, they were still as hard as stone. Adorned with silver gauntlets, mail, and a gleaming breastplate, seated resplendent in barbarity, the Mountain Wolf growled severely through bared yellow fangs.   
"Branog . . . only those of royal blood were to appear before me today. And only those of wolven blood are to ever set paw in these caves." His eyes narrowed dangerously at the line of vermin behind his son. They managed to keep their form and stance, but more than one had affected a noticable quiver. "You'd better have a damned good reason for disobeying me on two accounts."   
"I believe I do, m'Lordship," Branog lightly replied, turning and walking slowly down the lineup of his captains. Verdok glided unassumingly to one side as his brother continued. "These here are my finest captains. Every one of 'em played key roles in my suppressing of the uprising against you, Sir."   
"And I suppose that should convince me to spare their lives for this offense?"   
"Well, I . . . ." Branog stumbled over reminding his father that it was he who had ordered the vermin into the mountain. That might be another debilitating arguement in what was fast turning into a losing battle. Frantically he searched his mind for a possible foothold, brushing imaginary dust from a weasel's shoulder as a cover. "I should hope so, Sir. They keep the troops in such good order, y'know, and they're fine soldiers, every one of 'em. Very hard to find fighters of this quality, Sir." He turned to face his father again, whom he could tell was growing impatient. "Which is why I'd like to be keepin' 'em on. They'll be indispensible, y'see Sir, for when I attack Drakyndell."   
The Mountain Wolf arched an eyebrow and let the silence hang heavy for a moment. "I see," was all he said, but his flat stare spoke volumes to his son, and Branog did not like what he heard.   
"I don't believe we've so much as mentioned another campaign, son." Branog turned his head at the silvery voice of his mother. It always had an abrasive, slightly patronizing ring to it. Her tone was reflected in the eyes of the wolf at the foot of her throne, her other son, Skola Snowshadow. Like her, he was white, save for light touches of gray around his eyes and on his paws and tail.   
"Yes, you wouldn't be trying to secondguess our dear parents, would you, brother?" said Skola in a light, snooty tone.   
Branog resisted the urge to snarl at his smaller sibling. _Mama's pet_, he thought disgustedly. "I'm only trying to prevent a full'n'out rebellion, little Skola. Not that you'd know anything about it, playin' lapdog since autumn and not a scrap of work-" he cut his backlash short when he saw his mother's hackles rising. Her blood-red eyes threatened things far worse than loss of his command should he insult her favorite any further. Branog coughed nervously and appealed to his other parent again. "Somebeast needs to crush those dirty little maggots the same as we crushed the first resistance movement. If they're left alone much longer they could turn into a real big thorn in your side, Sir, surely you know this. Why not make an example of 'em now? Burn their city, kill their children, put fear back into the 'earts of those rotten lesser beasts in your valleys an' forests. I'm tellin' you, Sir, they're beginnin' t'forget who their rulers is down there. They're due for a reminder," he finished confidently, playing on his brother's own words to him.   
Garhad Stormslayer regarded his son for a long moment. "Very perceptive of you, Branog," he rumbled at last. "I would expect nothing less from one of my best generals," he added with a significant glance towards Skola. "Yes, I have summoned you here to discuss a campaign against Drakyndell. However, your other brothers have not yet arrived. Wasn't Uthor with you and Verdok?"   
"Oh, that great lug stayed be'ind when we finished with those miserable woodlanders. He took a third of my vermin to the coastlands on some stupid terror crusade. It's just like him to see to see to 'is own little fun an' games when there's a bigger problem t'be dealt with, Sir. I wouldn't expect th' irrisponsible loaf back 'ome for at least another fortnight. So if I may say so, Sir, what's to be discussed? Who better to smash Drakyndell into the ground than me?"   
"Somebeast who's actually got an army at their disposal, per'aps?" All eyes came to rest on another wolf as he threw open the doors to the throne room and swaggered in grandly. He was mostly black-furred, with chocolate patches on his flanks and ashen paws and face. Like Branog and Skola, he had his father's eyes. At the moment they gleamed with a triumphant light. It wasn't often that Dargon Rawfang got the better of his larger brothers, but today would be different.   
"Greetings, m'Lord, m'Lady Mother," he intoned, bowing respectfully. "Since my discovery of Drakyndell and, er, encounter with their forces, I've taken those under my command all along your mountains, Sir, and recruited 'undreds of vermin for your Painted 'Ordes. I even managed to get a pretty bunch from that polecat tribe we've been 'aving trouble from. After a little persuasion, of course." He grinned unpleasantly. "Th' ones left alive are now in your service, m'Lord, an' eager to please."   
"Well, goody-good for you, then, brother," Branog cut in before their parents had a chance to reply. So the little show-off thought he could gain the upper claw, did he? "I 'ope it makes up for all the 'ordebeasts you lost in your blundered li'l 'encounter'. I b'lieve it's only fittin' these recruits get transferred t'me - they need a gen'ral that won't walk 'em straight int' the enemy an' get 'em all slaughtered."   
"You seem to forget, son, that Dargon was able to turn the tide of the battle," Ingrata Frostfur smoothly interjected. She was not appreciative of Branog's constant bullying, which more often than not was aimed at Skola. She didn't often take part in the squabbles of her offspring, but she wasn't opposed to speaking for her other sons if only to spite Branog. "He returned to us victorious, and with a very important report. We would not have been aware of Drakyndell's existence if not for him."   
"But he-"   
"_I_ know how the enemy fights, dear brother. I have a plan, and an army t'put it to use. Your pitiful troops are tired'n'ragged after your last campaign. They couldn't fight their way out of a hole in the ground in their condition." Dargon's steady gaze flicked sharply at the sweating vermin, who had been trying their best to remain unnoticed. "And it looks like you'll soon be short another six captains. What a shame."   
One of the captains finally broke and let out a frightened whimper. Furious at having lost to his self-assured brother, Branog wheeled on the hapless creature and ran it through with its own sword. As he stormed out of the chamber he yelled to Skola, "Why don't y'make yourself useful an' clean that up, y'great white whelp!"   
"Branog!" Ingrata rose indignantly, but her mate waved her back down, chuckling.   
"It's enough punishment that he's lost face and command to Dargon, my pretty shedevil. But if you want someone to maim, I'll hand the rest of these lawbreakers over to you." He gestured towards the rest of the vermin, now cowering against the wall of the room closest to Ingrata's throne.   
A weasel broke from the group and made a desparate dash for the entrance. Skola was up in a flash, closing the distance between him and the would-be deserter in three long bounds. He lept in front of the weasel, who tried to stop but tripped and fell headlong to the rocky floor before Skola's paws.   
"Shall I escort them to your . . . entertainment room, Mother?" he inquired, placing one paw firmly on the quaking vermin's back and keeping his eyes on the others.   
Ingrata Frostfur's crimson eyes glimmered cruelly, the promise of torture on her tongue. "That would be lovely, dearest. I won't be disturbed for supper." With that she stood and stalked gracefully from the room. At a sharp look from Skola that mirrored his mother's malice, the unfortunate vermin reluctantly slunk after her, all save the weasel --- he had fainted out of sheer terror, and was carried disdainfully by Skola.   
"Verdok," boomed the Mountain Wolf after they had left. "You've been awefully quiet through all this." He didn't wait for a reply, anticipating none. "You're to go with Dargon and advise him in directing his army. I presume you're not overly weary from your last excursion?" he added with a touch of contempt.   
"No, my Lord," replied Verdok in a voice like an echo off the mountains. "As you know, I am more a tactician than a warrior."   
"Hrumph. Pretty way of saying you don't fight worth fodder. I'd hardly consider it an excuse if you weren't so good at what you do. You may go now. You will depart for Drakyndell on the morrow."   
Verdok and Dargon inclined their heads with a joint "Yes, my Lord", and turned to leave.   
"Dargon . . . ." growled the Mountain Wolf suddenly just before his son passed through the doorway. "If you fail to destroy Drakyndell this time, you'd do better to take your own life than return here."   
All the wolf's former pomp deserted him at the sound of his father's dark injunction. He had seen the Mountain Wolf's wrath inflicted upon other creatures; just to think about it tied his gut in knots. He turned himself around on shaking paws and bowed his body unsteadily to the floor.   
"Y-yes, m-m-my Lord." 


End file.
